


From the Ashes

by Mis_Shapes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Climate Chaos, Effectively Post-ADWD only its not canon setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Famine - Freeform, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Journey, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jon Snow, POV Theon Greyjoy, Past Abuse, Past Jeyne Poole/Ramsay Bolton, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Past Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Past Torture, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, Technology, Wilderness Survival, caste system
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25311184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mis_Shapes/pseuds/Mis_Shapes
Summary: The stranger’s hands tremble, their very being trembles, when they reach to reveal their face, and Jon struggles to keep pity at bay. He’s not sure what he had expected or pictured, but it was never this. If the years have changed Jon then they have torn Theon Greyjoy apart and aged him until he is barely recognisable.“I should kill you without a second thought,” Jon spits, pulling down his own scarf, and feels repulsed when the only response is a bared throat, but his mind is already on the girl. He dares to dream.Filled grief's rage, when the Commander of the Watch survives a mutiny he stands down from his position and succumbs to the Warden of the North's taunts, embarking on a mission to rescue his sister, but on his approach to his ancestral home he has a run-in with a traitor and a sniffling girl that sends him back in the opposite direction.*Jon, Theon, and Jeyne flee Bolton control and set off in search of safety and Starklings, creating seemingly unlikely bonds in the face of past actions and societal structures.*
Relationships: Jeyne Poole & Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy & Jeyne Poole, Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow
Comments: 58
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I always welcome any cheerleading/betaing do also get in touch if you do want to read as I write (or just chat) my Tumblr url is [salty-wife](https://salty-wench.tumblr.com/) and my discord username is MJ | mis_shapes#4655
> 
> Prior warning this will not look on the Starks through rose-tinted glasses - I love them all, but y'know - and focuses on some aspects of Jon's characterisation that doesn't tend to come through in my Modern AUs, it's a bit of a dynamic change.

As dusk settles, Jon knows that at least a portion of the rumours are founded in reality. Winterfell shines like a beacon on the horizon. It should fill him with hope and relief that he’s made it this far, but instead, he’s faced with startling proof that Winterfell’s, and in turn the North’s, new governors do not intend to show the smallfolk any morsel of decency. 

In the Winterfell he had left behind the power had been used sparingly, on things that were seen as integral to the running of the region, never was it used to light all of its many rooms. Even a solitary bulb in a study would be masked with shutters.

It’s the first time he’s seen electric lighting in over a month and it is now enough to spill out over the shantytown that has built up around the walls of his childhood home and light the smoke rising from hundreds of peat fires.

He tries to force it from his mind. Tries to focus on what brought him here. Arya.

When darkness has fallen, Jon settles between two of the larger rocks on the hillside to shelter from the northern winds blowing from beyond the wall. At daybreak, he will make his way down and into the camp. Its presence there will help disguise him from Bolton eyes. It had taken a good portion of the coin gained from trading in the majority of his personal items to purchase the clothing and items of boiled leather that offer him protection while not having him stick out like a sore thumb; as his Watch uniform had. During the day he can walk alongside the others coming and going from the land around.

Though unseasonably cold for autumn, he chooses not to risk a fire this close to the stronghold. He may be dressed as a commoner, but no amount of grime can disguise the Stark looks he knows very well the scouts will be on the lookout for. Ramsay has been trying to gaud him out of the Watch’s protection for some time now. He is sure to be waiting for Jon to attempt exactly what he plans to do.

Try as he might, he can’t sleep. His mind plots and runs through any and every even slightly possible way to make it into Winterfell unscathed and, ideally, unseen, but it throws a blank at every turn. All he knows is that this can’t be the point at which he gives up. He has to get her out. He has to make it south with her for Sansa. He can’t sit back and let another sibling die for the sake of his own safety and to maintain the only sense of fulfilment that was really open to him as a bastard.

The scurry of a hare past him alerts him to the approach of a threat. He hears them before he sees them. He hears the heavy pants of what must be two humans climbing the slope. Humans because of both their strides, the way their feet slip, and because one of them is threatening to sob. This is what provokes him to hang back and pray they pass him by with no bother.

He pushes his pack further into the gap where it had become too narrow for him to sit and presses himself back into the cold stone as far as he can go, crouched and with a blade in hand in case things go awry.

Heather rustles below as they climb through it and Jon wills his eyes to adjust to the light, heart pounding in his chest as he realises they are moving directly towards him. He has to make a decision; act defensively or play the mercenary travelling south for work that has gotten him to this point and hope they do not think to question why he has stopped with Winterfell insight.

If it weren’t for the sobs…

It’s uttered below a breath, a quiet plea, when he hears it. Such a small thing but his heart stops. 

“ _Theon_.”

His hand tightens on the sword’s leather wrapped halt. He can hear as well as feel the blood pounding in his ears, drowning out anything else he might be able to hear. Anger has deafened him. He has little time to think before a clumsy figure clambers up onto the shelf of rock. He has the tip of his blade at their throat before he can tell himself that this can not be his Theon.

Whoever-they-are raises their hands in immediate surrender to the sound of a whimper from below.

“No,” comes the sob of the companion, but there is none of the force from it that he expects.

“Take down the hood,” Jon demands, harsh, unwavering as he has learnt to be, “and the face covering.”

The stranger’s hands tremble, their very being trembles when they reach to reveal their face, and Jon struggles to keep pity at bay. He’s not sure what he had expected or pictured, but it was never this. If the years have changed him then they have torn Theon Greyjoy apart and aged him until he is barely recognisable.

“I should kill you without a second thought,” he spits, pulling down his own scarf, and feels repulsed when the only response is a bared throat, but his mind is already on the girl. He dares to dream. “Help her up,” he instructs whilst maintaining his position.

Theon hesitates, chapped lips parting ever so slightly. His eyes meet Jon’s with sadness, and this is all Jon really needs to see to know the truth of it, that she is not who he hopes her to be, but his heart holds out.

“I said help her up,” he snaps. He doesn’t intend for it to happen, but the tip of the blade nicks skin when Greyjoy turns with it at his throat, and a drop of blood rolls along the scrawny neck and into the crevices hidden by the scarf when he holds down a hand silently. There had been a time when a bastard drawing the blood of their father’s hostage might have had severe political ramifications, but their world is different now.

“Jon… “ Theon whispers, warns, when she scrambles onto the stone and Jon moves to take hold of her hood himself.

Brown eyes stop him. Brown where they should be grey. They lower respectfully when she kneels before him. No one has done that for quite some time, and the girl, Jeyne, would never have thought to a few long years ago, but it’s a silent confirmation of what he knows already. All he can find it in him to do is to nod in acknowledgement of her.

Jon puts steel into his voice. “Where is she?”

All either of them has to offer are shakes of their heads, and so he runs the blade up until it rests just below Greyjoy’s jaw in silent warning. He’d call this Theon a shell of his former self, but it’s a broken one, perhaps a ghost is more fitting, but it feels as though his soul has left what remains of his body. “Speak.”

Dark eyes, trained to the floor as Theon’s voice croaks, unnerve him. It’s one thing for the girl to be doing this, and quite another to have Greyjoy showing submission.

“Not there… ser.” 

“If you think this act will have me spare you, you are mistaken,” Jon snarls at him with disgust.

“I go willingly,” Greyjoy tells him, tugging at the bunched up cloth at the base of his throat to expose it further, “if you will take her away from here.”

“You are in no position to be bargaining with me!” 

Unable to keep to herself any longer, Jeyne’s hands reach out to Jon’s arm, clinging to his sleeve. “Please, don’t.”

“Do _not_ touch me!” Jon yells at her angrily, only realising just what he’s done when both their eyes widen and she shrinks away from him. “Not… not like that. I didn’t mean it like that.” He can feel the sting of tears in his eyes when he takes in her grey clothes. Arya’s clothes. “It’s been you all along…” he realises. Ramsay has been putting on a convincing charade. Chest tight, he asks the thing that worries him the most. “My brothers? Bran and Rickon? Is it true?” It can’t be true.

“No,” Greyjoy shakes his head and finally looks back up at him, white hair shining in the moonlight where it should be black, eyes hollow where they should be full of laughter.

Jon swallows down the lump in his throat and forces himself to take a deep breath. Greyjoy was a great many things; foolish, reckless, hurtful at times, but he had not believed him capable of the cruel murders of two boys he had seen grow from infants. Especially not the brothers of his close friend. And Jon suspects Robb and Theon were more than just friends. But then, nor had Jon ever imagined he was brazen and callous enough to take their home from them. 

“Weapons?” Jon asks, to which Jeyne gestures around to show she has nothing on her person before crawling to pull back Theon’s outer clothing, demonstrating the same of him, but Jon is too distracted by the glimpse of the skeletal frame below the thin fabric.

The sun will creep up over the horizon soon. They should not be here when it does. What animosity he has towards Greyjoy is overshadowed by the need for the information he might be able to impart which Jeyne may not, and so he lowers the sword and sheaths it.

“Cover up,” he hisses at Theon, thankful that they each have enough sense to recognise this means they are to move on. His hair is sure to stick out in the dark plains just as Ghost does and Jon had not been foolish enough to bring him out of the tree line. It is not something that promotes stealth, not without a blanket of snow on the ground.

Hanging back as they restart their slow ascent to the crest of the hill, wary of having his back to anyone, Jon glances over his shoulder to take another look at his home. He gets the feeling it will be some time before he sees it again.

* * *

On the opposite side of the mound they are masked by the landscape, but it unnerves Jon not to be able to know who or what lies behind. They will be expected to head north, Jon thinks. Even without him. And they can’t tread so close to the road. 

He eyes his new companions. It seems unlikely to him, seeing them now, that they could make it out alone, even to him, and he’s seen them. It fills him with dread. There's little time to be spared for doubt, but he can’t not ask. He can’t be taken for a fool.

“Wait!” Jon takes a fistful of Theon’s clothing and holds him back, fearing a trap. “How did you make it out?”

“The camp,” it’s Jeyne who answers, as quiet as a mouse, “it’s been allowed to grow out of control.” When Jon stares at her she elaborates. “The dump. We jumped. Well, he did. I… I couldn’t.”

”How long do we have?”

When Jeyne looks to him, unsure of the answer, Theon speaks. “Just enough to make it to the edge of the Wolfswood, I think.”

“That’s your plan?”

“It was,” answers Theon.

“And then?”

Theon swallows nervously. “I don’t…”

“You don’t know?” Jon asks in disbelief. “You risked both your lives and you have no plan?”

“He doesn’t know because you are here and not where we imagined,” Jeyne whispers. Oh. “And,” her lip trembles, “with all due respect, Commander, lives were already at risk, and I would prefer to die with hope.”

He expects to find Theon’s look mocking. Instead, Greyjoy merely inlines his head in agreement with her.

“Do not call me that,” Jon says finally, releasing Theon with a rough push through the sparser patch of thicket. “Those days are gone now.” _I traded them for a fool’s errand._ He keeps his tone even, doesn’t add the follow-up, but she sobs anyway. The noise goes right through him. Arya would be stronger than this.

It takes them hours to get to the cover of the trees proper, the land leading up to it shows signs of a revival, of sapling regrowth amongst the stumps and bracken. He wonders if Bolton knows or cares that nature has begun to heal itself. The woodland south of Winterfell and north along the Kingsroad is gone now, but sightings of the beasts for which the Wolfswood is named have dissuaded felling to such the same extent. 

Hobbling, Greyjoy moves at half the speed he had once been known to while intent on being sure of Jeyne’s footing.

If it weren’t for his pack, Jon might have been tempted to carry her some of the distance once on flat ground in hope their speed might pick up.

Once they are in the trees, Jon brings his fingers to his mouth and whistles, loud and sharp, in the pattern he has taught his travelling companion.

Jeyne shrieks when Ghost responds to his call, a bounding mass of white fur and red eyes on the path ahead. She clutches Theon’s arm tight. Even when Jon walks ahead to fuss the animal, they each look on in terror. That look only heightens when he throws a pocket knife over.

“Cut a strip of cloth from your under clothes, each of you.”

 _“This one will die even faster than the others.”_ Theon had once said of Ghost beside the rest of the litter, from which each of the Stark children, plus Jon, had been given a pup. It gave Jon no satisfaction to know they both knew this to be untrue, but snide comments play on his mind. Questions about Robb remain on the tip of his tongue.

“Do you want to be found?” He asks when they don’t get to it quick enough.

Jon uses the last of the water he carries to dose the fabric until it drips and ties them from the wolf’s collar to drag along the floor. Crouching, he ruffles him behind the ears and gestures to the north of them with a snap of his fingers. “Go, boy. Go hunt.”

It is not foolproof, but with any luck, it should have any potential search party on a wild goose chase, at least for a while. If any dog finds Ghost the wolf will have its throat. He wonders how they would fare without him. With no water, no weapons, no supplies of any kind.

“Jon,” Greyjoy speaks after another couple of hours of ‘walking’ whilst Jon is filling bottles from a small stream. At a cool stare he retracts the familiar address and corrects it with ‘ser’, but Jon hates it just as much. It only makes it more obvious that he too is unsure as to whether to label him Snow or Stark. Perhaps he was even there when Robb attempted to rewrite history and legitimise him. “We need to stop,” he says with a meaningful flick of his eyes to Jeyne.

“Fine.” They will be losing light soon and he’d hoped to make it a little further, but he’s beginning to see this will be an exercise in patience and he does need time to filter and purify the water. With a heavy sigh, Jon stands straight, eyes scouring the brook, he finds what he’s looking for. “There, the log, cross it and do not get yourselves wet. We can rest just over that crag.”

He builds the small fire in silence and watches them whisper between themselves out of the corner of his eye while he brings water to the boil, one leg drawn under himself as he waits. He had expected to be sharing what meager rations he has with his sister, he thinks bitterly while measuring out stock powder for the pot. 

The poor meal of reconstituted broth and hard crackers is nothing much, but they accept it gratefully. Jeyne wolfs it down like she’s never tasted anything as good. At her side, Theon takes small sips and carefully softens the crackers he’s allotted in the drink, lowering the scarf that covers his mouth only when needed. 

They make a silent agreement to wait until she sleeps, curled up in Jon’s bedding and snoring softly, to speak.

Jon busies himself breaking sticks over his knee to avoid looking at Theon and his haunted expressions. “Tell me what you know. Are they alive?”

The glow of the fire has Theon a more palatable colour than the ghastly grey under the light of both the moon and sun. “No one knows about any of them. All missing.” 

“All but one,” Jon says bitterly, throwing a twig onto the flames in anger.

Greyjoy has the decency to look down into the dirt at the reference to the friend he betrayed. “Either they’re managing to fly under the radar or…”

“Or they’re dead too,” Jon continues for him. Bile rising in his throat at the idea. “Do you have any ideas? You must have seen or heard something.”

“Surveillance is too heavy in the south, either Sansa and Arya are being hidden exceptionally well or they aren’t there. My money would be on not being there. If it were me,” Theon sighs, “I’d have risked Border Force for the payoff for an easier life in Essos. I… I would imagine, unless it was at the hands of someone powerful, if they were dead, their bodies would have been found by now. There has been little question about,” he gestures towards Jeyne with a gloved hand, “and from snippets of transmissions about Sansa, plus the bounty on her...” it would seem the Lannisters have no clue where she is either.

“And Bran and Rickon?”

“When they… when they e-escaped,” Theon stutters, “I assumed they’d go north… go to you. Bran is smart enough not to risk the south. But you’re here asking me about them…”

Nudging a log further onto the fire, Jon nods in acknowledgement of both what he is saying and what he leaves unsaid. They are young and natural threats become an increasing risk on the way towards the northern border. It’s a whole lot more likely they are dead than the girls.

“I should leave the pair of you to your own devices,” he says, hugging his knees. He should have Greyjoy’s head but he has some affection for his sister’s friend, no matter how irritating he might find her, and is not cruel enough to leave Jeyne with no one nor patient enough to give her all the reassurance she seeks himself. “I will take you as far as Deepwood before I start back north. There we will have to find some way of getting you onto a boat for Bear Island.”

“I-I want to help you find them.”

Jon gives him a scathing look. “What help would you be to me?” Deep down he’s horrified with himself for his tone, no matter the truth of the rhetoric. He wants the satisfaction of a retort, but all he gets is the resignation written on Theon’s face as he stares into the flames with purpose.

It’s as much as Jon can bear for one day. “Sleep,” he says, throwing his cloak over to serve as a blanket - it will do no good to have him ill rested, “I will take the first watch.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some caring Jon disguised by pragmatism and a dip into Theon's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This is late coming - the summer is a particularly busy time for me. Thank you for your support for this AU, I'm excited to be back to writing it.
> 
> Also - that's right, I couldn't keep away from Theon POV!

**Jon**

The morning after, Jon knows no amount of warmth or comfort will leave Theon well rested. He tosses and turns, calls out, shakes, and startles both himself and Jeyne awake on a number of occasions. His tremors are worse even during the daytime, something Jon hadn’t thought possible. Jeyne is little better after the first couple of hours which she had spent passed out through sheer exhaustion.

Jon is no stranger to being around those with troubled minds, the Watch is full of men with difficult pasts, but the extent of it still surprises him. Jeyne especially. Westeros was not known for love matches in the higher strata, but this must have been more than just unpleasant.

After breaking their fast on stale biscuits and mint tea, he finds it harder to get them to move than he had before. They ache from the leagues they walked the previous day and though neither complain he knows from the way they move, and Jeyne winces, that their feet are sore and covered in blisters. It would be nice to be merciful and let them rest, but it’s not possible this early on, not this close to Winterfell.

Around midday, he hears a howl from the north. He knows it cannot be Ghost, but he wishes Ghost were around to catch something for their supper. The pair of them look half starved and he needs to stretch out the provisions as far as they will go, especially while they are still so far south where in theory there should be more to scavenge and they burn less calories in the milder climate.

Sending them ahead under strict instructions to keep the sun to the left, Jon hangs back to search the forest floor until he has a small cloth full of fungi and a bundle of burdock stems with leaves. He’d hoped to find berries, and he needs to start gathering things he can store, but this should do for something at least. He could also do with being able to fashion something for them to be able to carry a few small items eventually, especially for once they part ways, but perhaps more pressing is finding them decent clothing.

Theon’s clothes could barely be described as anything more than rags. Patchy, stained, mismatched, and full of holes. At least no one would give him a second glance, not like Jeyne’s clothes, which are differently inappropriate for this little adventure they have going on. His shoes, battered canvas with cracked soles, whilst Jeyne’s are little more than pumps. Already tarnished green from grass and brown from dirt, the only thing going for them is that they are no longer Stark colours.

In the past the colours of their clothes would have mattered little, but now it's costly to use bleaches and dyes this light grey is a rare sight in newer clothing and she’s dressed head to toe in it, hooded cape, mask, and suede gloves also.

 _At least it's a long tunic and leggings, not a dress_ , Jon thinks to himself.

Between the three of them they might as well be waving a flag, welcoming attention.

When he finds them again they’re sat on a fallen tree by a small stream and speaking quietly. It makes him irrationally angry that they do this, and he’d like to say something about them having stopped, but it was probably the better decision.

By his rough estimation, they make it less than half the distance they had on the first day. It’s going to take months. He doesn’t have months.

With a bowl of stew in each of their hands as the sun dips below the horizon, drawing out long shadows across the forest floor, he spreads his map out on the ground to take a look in the dying light while he waits to be able to use one. Taking a pencil, he marks the path he believes they have gone. Possibly a little over seven leagues in total. He’d manage that easily and then some by himself in a day. If he can keep this average over the next few days he should be around the river source by the week’s end. When free of them, he will follow up through the Northern Mountains.

Out of the corner of his eye he spots them moving bits of food between their bowls but thinks little of it. 

After they have all finished eating, Jon boils extra water and takes the pot once it's cooled slightly and his bag over to where Jeyne sits. 

“May I?” Jon asks, holding a damp cloth and gesturing to her bare feet she has perched on top of her shoes. She nods and he first cleans them more generally with one cloth before carefully tackling the cuts and open sores with another, hand on her heel to stop her moving too much when she flinches from the pain. “These will stop the bandages from sticking,” he tells her, fixing burdock leaves in place, “in the morning we will line your shoes with them, it might help a little.”

She watches him wide eyed the entire time and mumbles out a thank you, wiggling her toes a little in their new coverings.

“I will make sure you have everything you need to do it each evening from now on,” he looks to see if she’s listening and she nods in response. The last thing he needs is to have her with an infection or walking at an even slower pace than this.

Once Jeyne is asleep, Theon sits back up. It’s odd having only his eyes to go off. As they get further into the forest they should be able to ease up on the masks, but for now he’s left with the sorrowful pools of black.

“Thank you, St-,” he falls short of naming him when Jon holds up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t. Just call me Jon. It wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done,” he comments, sighing.

Theon takes a deep breath. “I know I don’t deserve it -”

“That would be an understatement.”

“I know,” Greyjoy almost whispers, “but she… This isn’t her fault.”

Jon looks over at Jeyne and gives a curt nod. He knows this already. Jeyne would never be foolish enough to impersonate a girl of higher rank. What does Greyjoy want?

“I… You… I know we aren’t who you hoped to find,” Theon says and Jon scoffs. Is this state the obvious hour? “But, you should be relieved your sister hasn’t been through what she’s been through.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to make me feel bad?”

“Drowned god,” mutters Theon, tired, but Jon’s mind leaps until it's almost derisive, and for a moment they could be in one of Winterfell’s halls with him dressed in ostentatious gold satin, smooth plump skin over sharp features, looking down his nose, “n-no, I’m saying thank you.”

It’s hard now to think of the Theon Greyjoy in his mind, the one he’d once known. Cocky. Bold in every way he isn’t. Handsome. Is it a blessing or a curse that all he’s left with only the strip of uncovered face? Would he fixate on those features still and find the beauty in them, or would he benefit from being faced with reality?

Jon had been eager for his attention once upon a time, for familiarity with someone who didn’t fit in either, but Greyjoy, being Greyjoy, put on airs and as they got older the sense that one day Theon would be able to return home and regain his station in life became more and more apparent. The same could never be said for Jon. 

There’s no way to come back from being a bastard. No matter how a treasured sibling might try to bend rules. And especially not now Ramsay is using the name Bolton. They will all remember his true name, Snow, and they will remember that Jon shares it.

“You… you’re…” Theon frowns as he tries to think how to word it, “how did you learn to do things?” 

“The Watch, especially as a foot soldier, is not the same experience as - “ he stops himself from implying that Theon is soft, a coward, probably spent a good portion of his time in the relative luxury of a General’s sheets before he got ideas of his own grandeur and betrayed him for them. He pauses, purses his lips, then continues when he notices Theon watching him expectantly still. “I spent some time with the Free Folk.”

“Some time?”

His voice feels hoarse, he hasn’t spoken as much as these past two days since he left the border over a month ago, but Theon is still listening, still _interested_ , so he takes a sip of cold tea and considers what he’s prepared to tell him. His mind fixates on the moment he returned to word that his brothers had been killed by the dark haired joker from his youth, how the permanent smile warped in his imagination, and how not long after he’d felt Ygritte’s body go limp in his arms.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jon says and waits for Theon to push him.

He never does, only nods and takes his cue to lie back down on the hard ground and attempt to sleep.

**Theon**

“ _Theon_.”

He shakes his head, that’s not his name anymore.

There’s the buzz and crackle of the tube light flickering on overhead after a day of pitch black darkness. He presses his eyes closed, willing it all away; the light, the visitor.

“ _Theon,_ ” the voice tries again. Footsteps beside him on the polished concrete floor.

“No,” he whimpers. Not Theon.

“ _Theon?_ ” 

A hand clasps his shoulder and he flinches away involuntarily. Fearing the worst. When it persists he cracks an eye open to look and finds Robb crouched beside him, showing him a warm bright smile with that endearing tilt of the head he does.

“No,” he repeats in terror. It’s a trap. He has to warn Robb, Ramsay can’t find him here, but the words refuse to leave his mouth.

“ _Theon?_ ” Though it’s Robb’s lips that move this time, it’s no longer his voice. The same accent, but it’s all wrong.

He blinks, hoping his eyes will adjust to the bright light, and when he next opens his eyelids it's Jon staring back at him. The head tilt remains intact, but there’s nothing cute about it, and there’s no smile waiting for him on this brother’s face, only more concern than he deserves. 

“Sorry,” Theon mumbles. The last thing he needs to do is piss Jon off more. Especially not after speaking to him like he had any right to. Self conscious, he pulls his scarf higher. Jon had looked at him with disgust at Winterfell and he hadn’t even known the half of it.

Jon shakes his head. “I wasn’t sure how best to wake you when you are… well… I think you were dreaming.”

The trickle of light growing on the horizon and birdsong tells him Jon has left waking him too long again. As much as he’s loath to heed Jeyne’s argument that she be included in the watch it might be necessary, even if he knows Jon is as reluctant as he is.

“Here.” Jon holds out a cup of steaming tea. “Drinking something warm helps me sleep and I thought…”

“Thanks,” says Theon, almost whispering with the surprise. He’s about to hand Jon’s cloak over to him when he thinks better of it and shuffles out from between it. “Sleep here, it will be warmer.” 

Jon looks hesitant, but he sees sense and settles down. As expected, he’s asleep quicker than he had been the night before. When he sleeps, despite the scars on his face, his expression smooths out and he could almost be mistaken for the boy he’d once known. He’s seen Jon sleeping out in the elements before, seen him at peace in the light of a fire beneath the stars and the canopies of the Wolfswood, but it was never like this.

Certain Jon is asleep, he takes some of the recently boiled water and the supplies Jon had left for Jeyne by her feet and hesitantly takes the shoes from his feet, his gloved hands struggling with the laces. He winces from the pain, the blood has crusted and glued socks and shoes to his skin. It’s harder still to remove the sock, both wtth the pain and his reluctance to witness the state of his body. 

The left side is worse. With three toes missing as opposed to the one on the right, his foot slips in the shoe more and he struggles to place it properly when they walk. 

Jon had been particularly kind to do this for her, he thinks, grimacing as he cleans broken blisters, and kinder still to have left out enough for him to do it for himself. 

It would be easier, far easier, if Jon reacted to him with the anger he was owed. _What about the boys?_ He longs to ask, to provoke him. _They were children of the north too. They were children. Do only Stark children matter?_

It’s unfair. He knows it’s unfair to expect Jon to be as mournful about two stranger’s sons than his brothers. It’s unfair to hope punishment might bring some closure to his own thoughts. He’s not entitled to peace from them. Far from it. Would that he were. 

Would that he had stayed by Robb’s side.

Now all that’s left to him is the solace of death, and by Jon’s grace he may find a watery grave while in the comfort of knowing that Jeyne is safe.

Where is Robb now?

Is it selfish to long to face retribution?

Jeyne wakes a few hours with a whisper. “Theon?” She asks, frowning at the shape of Jon where Theon had once been.

“Here.”

She gets up from her bed, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Good,” she says, noticing that he has moved the bundle from by her in the night. “Have you told him yet?” She asks quietly.

“No,” he shakes his head, avoiding meeting her eyes, “I’ll be fine. I’ve padded them out. It should help.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs, unconvinced. “Theon…” Her chin wobbles. “I don’t know Bear Island.”

Theon watches Jon where he sleeps. He’s in no position to criticise Jon’s plans, but it might be the one place Jon could’ve picked that the old Theon wouldn’t challenge… no matter his suspicions. 

“You’ll be safe there,” he tells Jeyne, reaching over to comfort her with a hand on her arm. “Ramsay won’t follow you there. Not across the Bay of Ice. Mormont women would not give you up.” 

Mormont women will also see the value in holding him alive, something other northerners would overlook. Though the Ironborn are so splintered would any but his sister Asha care about the risk to his life should they choose to raid Bear Island’s shores?

“What about you?” Jeyne asks, moving closer to sit by him. She pulls on her hood and huddles forwards to get more heat from the fire. “Don’t you want to go home?”

Theon catches the change in Jon’s breathing and licks his sore lips nervously. He’s laid awake, listening to them speak.

 _I can’t go home like this_ , he thinks to himself, _and if Jon is set on making use of me, so be it_. “The sea is home,” is what he tells her. In the end his value as a hostage is something both he and Jon can benefit from. Perhaps Jon has his sights on the Wardenship of the North afterall. “Try not to worry. You’re in good hands.” Looking into the flickering flames, Theon feels Jon’s eyes fall on him.

He wonders what Jon thinks of this position they’ve found themselves in. Is he proud? Theon is certain Jon would think himself above gloating but that doesn’t mean to say he doesn’t think about it. Seeing him taken down a notch or two… or three probably isn’t a desire held by Ramsay alone.

“I’m scared,” she says quietly with wide brown eyes.

He sighs and looks on at her sideways. There’s no point pretending they don’t have good reason to be. “Me too,” he tells her, trying to ignore Jon’s eavesdropping.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely readers, thank you for your patience. As some of you know, I've been particularly busy recently. My wonderful beta has also been busy so this chapter is currently unbeta'd - eek.

**Theon**

The day is harder than the last, though his feet feel marginally better in the morning. Every muscle, every bone, in his body screams in protest, those that are there and those that are missing. His absent digits seem to twitch with the ghost of movement and he is left with itches he can only scratch through the leather of his gloves.

By the time they are to set up camp it's small wonder he can stand upright much longer. He sways on his feet, unable to balance when Jon stops to survey an area, and before he knows it he’s stumbling towards the base of a tree to bring up what little his stomach contains from lunch, which is thankfully not a lot at this hour.

He feels a hand stroke his back as he recovers. Jeyne’s, of course. In the corner of his eye, he can see Jon standing still, awkward and unable to decide what to do. 

“I will get you some water,” she tells him once he has settled and the retching has subsided, and he’s vaguely aware of Jon making his own excuses to leave. 

Theon manages to make the final few metres to where Jon has decided they will stay and a cup of water is pressed into his hands for him to drink. He must doze a little because Jeyne’s shrill shriek takes him by complete surprise.

When he opens his eyes it's to see Jeyne face to face with Ghost. The beast drops a limp rabbit by where she sits attempting to get a small fire going, having replicated what she has seen Jon do the last two nights, and she scuttles backwards from him and the offering.

Theon has barely had time to register what is happening when Jon races into the small clearing, sword drawn. With one look at the girl and wolf he sighs, body relaxing. He’s always been quick to react and now even more so, and for that Theon feels somewhat reassured, but he can’t help but think of the limitations of Jon’s sword.

Swords are all well and good when the rule playing aristocracy face each other. They will use the smallfolk as fodder. But times are changing, and though bullets are a rarity on the mainland these days, in what feels like a shortage very much beneficial to the ruling class facing new levels of criticism, Theon wouldn’t be so sure that one of Ramsay’s boys wouldn’t bury one in Jon’s chest if necessary. Stigma be damned.

Jon sheaths his sword and approaches Ghost. “Here boy,” he calls him away from Jeyne and gets onto his knees to fuss over the wolf for returning, and with dinner, but he meets Theon’s eyes and looks purposefully to Jeyne.

He’s right, it should be Theon to offer her comfort.

Theon pulls himself up off the dirt floor. He’s not going to tell her Ghost is harmless. “Do you think…” he searches his mind for the name Sansa had given her wolf, “Lady would be as big as her brother is now?” Jeyne shakes her head hesitantly and he offers her a sad smile. Swallowing the lump from his throat, he continues, “Grey Wind was almost this size when I last saw him.” _When you last saw Robb. Just before they say they fixed the wolf's head to his owner's body,_ his mind whispers. “Grey Wind once put himself between me and a Lannister man.” He meets her eyes to be sure she knows what he is saying.

With a strange sense of understanding, the wolf flattens itself to the ground and peers at her with its unnerving red eyes.

Her lips purse and she nods, shuffling a little closer to Theon, who trades a look with Jon. 

Truth be told, he’s probably almost as nervous around it as her. Drowned God, as tame as some hounds may seem at times, they each know many can turn in an instant under the right pressure. And wolves are not dogs bred to be trained. He’d once come to trust Grey as he trusted Robb…. As Robb trusted him. As he’d once trusted Ramsay. Maybe there’s no chance he’ll ever trust anyone or thing as he once did.

“Jeyne,” Jon begins when he has retrieved the firewood and wild garlic he’d found before Ghost created a commotion, and has her immediate and full attention. It’s a rarity that Jon addresses her directly, and he appears to struggle with it now. “Would you be willing to take a shift tonight… please?”

“O-of course,” says Jeyne eagerly.

He turns his attention to the rabbit, taking out a knife. “Thank you.”

It’s too much to see the knife cut through, to see Jon deftly skin the rabbit. The smell of blood fills Theon’s nostrils and he heaves again for the second time that day. Will he ever see a blade touch flesh without imagining it is his own? 

Jon looks up. Those steel eyes pierce into him and right as Theon’s about to be consumed with embarrassment, he says, “there are boiled sweets in the front pocket of my bag.” He kicks it a small distance towards him. “You might feel better for it.”

The idea that what Theon’s suffering can be pinned to low blood sugar is laughable to him, but Jon’s concern, albeit small and born from practicalities, would have it die in his throat even if he were capable of laughter.

He hates to admit it but the sherbet lemon, cloying in its sweetness as it is after all these years, does diminish a little of the nausea. Enough that he manages a little of the smaller pieces of lean meat by carefully chewing on a select few teeth. The whole ones that remain without breaks and cracks.

That night, with a full stomach, with Ghost laid on one side, Jeyne snoozing to his other and Jon sat just beyond her, he falls to sleep with more ease than he can remember. It’s a far cry from the solitary life inside the cell Bolton had him in.

**Jon**

The undergrowth becomes denser as they trudge uphill. They’re going to lose the tree cover at some point, which isn't a happy prospect with the weather turning, but the map isn’t clear enough to read where that will happen. He’s beginning to tire from hacking back some of the foliage to make it easier for Theon and Jeyne whose movements have slowed after their initial pick up following Ghost returning with much-needed protein to add to their diets a couple of nights ago.

The way in which the wolf is at ease around the pair of them is reassuring, but he reminds himself at regular intervals that, even in this state, Greyjoy is not to be trusted. Getting on for a week together now, he has a little more faith that he isn’t here as part of one of Ramsay’s ploys. He refrains from pushing with his questions and they rarely gain useful information, but his interest in Jon’s life where it had been previously absent unnerves him.

At midday they find a fallen tree large enough for them to sit on, or in Jeyne’s case lie back against and look up into the canopy above.

Jon’s eyes move from the map to follow her gaze up to the sky peaking through.

He can feel Theon watching him before he breaks the silence and asks in a voice so quiet and meek he can barely believe it's coming out of that mouth, “what are you thinking?” It’s an invitation for him to talk through his thoughts rather than an insistence that he needs to know Jon’s plans.

The wind blows through the leaves and Greyjoy’s hair. It pushes the white locks across his face and he tucks it back out of the way and into the scarf he keeps wrapped around him. For just a moment Jon is transported back to watching Theon up on the high walls of Winterfell, the way his dark hair whipped around and the smirk on his face as he leant against the concrete. His movements had been fluid and deliberate then, made for people's view. Anything that might seem hesitant was only to garner attention. Now they are cautious, small, and his posture smaller still. 

The way only two of his fingers curve in the glove when he makes the action further supports Jon suspicions. Maybe it’s a bid to quit pretenses when Jon himself removes his own gloves to point with greater accuracy on the map, revealing the burn covering it.

He turns on the tree trunk and tucks a leg beneath him before he lays the map between them.

“We’re here and headed up towards the river source, but it becomes marshy and it would mean continuing to battle with the gradient and uneven ground…”

“You’re thinking about meeting the road?” Theon’s intonation turns it into a question where it need not be. He’s sharp enough to be right there with him, he knows Jon, he knows how he thinks.

“Mmm,” Jon nods, “it's a risk, but if we keep back from the road itself we should find things easier while avoiding the cameras… what do you think?”

“I don’t even know if the cameras are still in use.”

“They are,” Jeyne interrupts, eyes still trained on the branches swaying overhead. “Not all of them because there’s not enough power for them all… He’s prioritising those on the Kingsroad, but there are sensors on those of the roads leading to Winterfell.” She sits up and rearranging her clothes awkwardly. “You were caught on one between the Long Lake and the Northern Mountains,” she explains. “He took me into the surveillance room… to gloat I guess.”

Inwardly, he curses. He should have gone the long way round, even if it meant crossing the river as it widened. He thought he’d been clever choosing to avoid the bridges. 

“Did you know this,” he asks Theon sharply. “Is this why you chose then to get out?”

“No. No, I swear I never told him!” Jeyne says hurriedly.

“And you didn’t see yourself?”

“Jon, he wouldn’t-” Theon begins before stopping himself. “No, I didn’t see… I suppose it was going to be a surprise.”

For the first time, Jon wonders how he’d learnt about Robb.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s not my place to weigh in,” Theon mumbles.

That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? For Greyjoy to express no opinion. For him not to be nudging him into a trap. The trouble is that those dark eyes of his tell Jon he’d not been oblivious to the test.

“Fine,” Jon’s voice is harsher than he’d intended, especially as this was probably what he should have hoped Theon would have said. Perhaps it would’ve been easier if he was given more reason to doubt him. Maybe if Theon were to slip it up it would be easier to hate him. “Jeyne?”

“I-... I don’t know anything about such things, commander. You don’t want my opinion.”

He sighs, beginning to fold the map back on itself, and is taken aback when Theon speaks up.

“You know what you want to do, you don’t need our permission. I doubt we’d have gotten this far without you.”

Picking bark from the trunk, Jon looks off to the side, hoping to conceal his embarrassment over the failure. “I clearly didn’t know enough to keep him from my whereabouts.”

“There aren’t many options coming down from the Wall…”

“I could have gone a longer way round. I don’t know… maybe I should have taken us south.”

“And delivered all three of us to the Lannisters?”

“No, to White Harbour.” And allowed them to flee to Essos.

“Can you be sure of the Manderlys? Besides, what you're doing puts you at a tactical advantage.” That’s the first time Theon truly meets his eyes. _He knows then_. It’s not a surprise in itself, only that he’s decided to put it out there. “Stop doubting yourself,” Theon says finally, looking to the floor.

The Greyjoy in his mind follows him. _Stop doubting yourself, Snow; it’s not attractive._

He hates himself for even considering what Greyjoy might think of him.

The way to the road, which he had indeed decided on, proves to be considerably more easy-going, even if it does mean they are no longer walking directly towards Deepwood. He hopes to the seven hells that this is the right decision. 

Theon has turned quiet since their discussion, like he’s decided he’s spoken too much, but Jeyne has become a little more engaged. She asks him about the Mormonts, about Bear Island, and the girls around her own age, but never ventures into more serious topics. Her curiosity reminds him of his sisters and makes his heart ache for them both.

It takes them the better part of two days to reach the land close to the road, becoming clear by the signs of human activity. Increased paint on the trees from the days when the woodland was managed, the amount of nettles they are plagued with, the feel of earthworks beneath their feet, and best of all the narrow paths trodden through the undergrowth, kept alive by the fauna. And the paths bring other benefits, hedges covered in the autumnal gift of berries for one.

The following day the paths become wider, a rotten bridge covers a stream, and he considers turning away from it and taking them back further in where the trees are denser, but when he dares to get close enough to the road, climb some of taller trees, binoculars in hand he finds that the cameras do appear to be trained on the road ahead, and not once does he see or hear a passing car.

When they spy a building in the distance, they look to each other for reactions. Jon’s heart races. He had known this would happen sooner or later, of course, but he was still to make a decision on what to do about it. Venturing into it is high risk but has the potential to be of an even higher reward.

“Ok,” Jon finally breathes out, “I’ll go first and check what the situation is” He swallows hard, looking between his two companions, and lets the backpack drop from his shoulders. It contains all his worldly possessions, but it means very little if he’s caught. “If you hear a whistle, I want you to take the bag and run.”

Jeyne simply nods, but Theon glances down to the bag on the floor, realising the trust he’s placing in them. “Jon…”

“Don’t.”

**Theon**

He knows it's Jon that needs to go. Jon knows what he’s doing, he has the strength in him to get out of more situations than he goes, he most likely has a better idea of setups outside the strongholds, and he doesn’t look too out of place. If there are still regular people in there they would take one look at him or Jeyne and know this is no ordinary traveler.

Before he leaves, Jon tugs up his sleeve to reveal the tattoos on his forearm. It’s the first time Theon has seen the lines, or line and a half. Even looking at it himself, Jon has set his jaw at seeing that half that marks him out as a bastard and different from his siblings and Theon. 

_What is this in aid of?_ Theon wonders, but he is quickly answered when Jon roots around in his many pockets until he has a black marker pen in hand.

“I guess it makes me lucky now,” Jon says bitterly, tip of the pen on his skin. “It would be harder to create a line from nothing.”

Theon frowns. “Why…?”

Jon doesn’t look up, concentrating on carefully extending the line. This must be well-practiced, Theon can barely spot the difference even knowing that it is. “If there’s anyone living in there, I’ll come off better. One line and at worse I’m worth something, and then there are plenty who don’t want to bring trouble into their homes. Two and I’m enough to be respected without too much suspicion as to why I am wandering in the wilderness alone. Plus, there are few bastards known well enough for them to wonder if I’m one of them… and I’d rather not be either.”

He covers his arm back up and rearranges his cloak to disguise the bastard sword somewhat. 

_A hand and a half sword to match the line and a half_ , muses Theon.

“Will he be ok?” Jeyne asks, worry in her voice, as they watch Jon walk away.

“He’ll be fine,” he replies, trying to convince himself as much as he is Jeyne and fighting the fear along with something else.

There had been a time when Snow would watch him from the corner of his eye. Theon had liked that, encouraged it even with small adjustments to his posture, and subtly teased him with lewd tales; enjoying the hint of a flush in his cheeks and the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple. It was almost as fun as watching Robb turn pink, being far more obvious in his interest.

Now, it’s him watching; as terrible as that thought is.

“Come on,” he says to Jeyne as Jon moves out of sight, and takes the bag into his hand to pull it off the path, with difficulty, and find themselves a more comfortable spot. How on earth is he carrying this thing day after day? 

_I guess he can get a good grip on it_ , Theon thinks. He can barely move it a couple of metres. Drowned God, don’t make him try to flee with this. Snow’s a madman to think he might run off with it.

He could have tried to make a break during the night, but the truth is that he doubts he would be able to make a getaway without disturbing Jon, who is an incredibly light sleeper. 

Jon tosses and turns all night long, and stirs even when extra firewood is added to the flames; forever ready to wake and face the music. The few times he does become a little less restless he talks in his sleep, but it rarely makes sense to Theon’s ears. Other than the names he recognises. 

The way Jon says Robb - no matter how it is said - has his stomach in knots, whether it be with affection or woe.

Jeyne tucks her cape under her to sit on the moss beneath a tree, wary of the moisture and removes her hood to comb her fingers through her hair. The cape is filthy. They’re filthy.

 _Please let this place be empty and with running water,_ he prays to any god that might be listening. There’s nothing he’d like more than a wash not in a river - which he is reluctant to do anyway with the lack of privacy. Well, maybe no nothing, but it's definitely up there. A time machine is probably at the top of his list.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, same as last chapter, there are likely to be some silly mistakes etc etc. Those that usually read through have a lot on at the moment (as do I, but this took hold of my brain again).

**Jon**

Jon approaches the property with caution, moving off the path and eyeing the undergrowth suspiciously for signs of traps. He chooses not to enter through the gate built into the fencing just yet, but to pull himself up to the top of the planks. Muscles in his arms straining, he takes in the sight. 

At first glance it’s not much but an overgrown and abandoned garden, the second time he peers over the top he sees the fruit trees, and the broken glass structure of what must have been a greenhouse. Together with the worn-out tools, it suggests they couldn’t have stumbled across a much better place. This was the home of people who were - or are - relatively self-sufficient.

The problem is, it feels too good to be true. The only reassurance he can think of is the lack of maintenance and the rotting fruit on the ground.

He drops himself down and sucks out a splinter the weathered wood has gifted him before he hoists himself back up and swings his leg over. His movements aren’t swift enough to get over in one motion. Though climbing was always Bran’s forte, Theon would have been able to make it easily, gracefully, at one point. He’d have leapt over without thinking about it twice. He wouldn’t be perched up here uncomfortably and then carefully lowering himself down, almost getting his limbs tangled. Now he rarely does anything without worry.

Keeping to the perimeter on instinct, Jon creeps closer to the house until he has no choice but to run across to the sidewall. There’s a CCTV camera directed at the driveway and road beyond, but he is yet to see any others. To play it safe, he heads around to the back door, glancing carefully through the windows on the way, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Thinking wishfully, he tests the door. It’s locked. On reflection, if they intended to come back the contents are likely to be decent. Better for it to be locked than ransacked.

Jon bites his lip. How is he going to get in? He should have learnt how to pick locks as had been suggested to him. He’s shot himself in the foot turning his nose up at such skills. Eventually, he spots it, the birdbath. It’s not ideal, a broken door isn’t exactly inconspicuous. It’s grotty, the plan is inelegant, and he’d better hope no one is around, but he wraps his hands in the cloak, lifts the stone bowl, and raises enough strength to slam it into the glass portion of the door.

When the window shatters, he throws the stone in too, waiting for any alarms before reaching carefully inside to twist the lock.

The door opens into a kitchen with dust-covered wooden cabinets. Eager to know already, he turns the tap. The pipes groan and the water initially splutters out brown before turning to the welcome sight of clear running water. He wets only the tip of a finger to give it a wary taste, before drinking directly from the cool refreshing stream.

Wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, he searches the other rooms with more speed. Downstairs, alongside the kitchen-diner, there is a pantry, a formal dining room, a living room, a toilet, and a locked cupboard which has him pause. Judging by the large chest freezer and the camouflage jackets on the hooks he has his suspicions about it. If he jumps to this conclusion, so will Theon.

Jon swallows the lump from his throat. How much does he trust him? His heart races. In a bid to throw him even a little bit off, he gathers up the camo. His first thought is to chuck it all in the freezer, but it’s looking particularly rank in there, and one of the others may look. In the end, he pushes them down the back of the sofa. It’s an awful hiding place, but his panicked mind can think of little else.

Upstairs is dull in comparison and the air there is even staler, but a welcome sight. Like the front room downstairs, he is relieved to find the curtains drawn in all three bedrooms. It means they can have less concern about being spotted. The beds are unmade and many of the drawers hang half-open. The wardrobe doors rest on their hinges. Whatever the reason they left, they did so in a hurry.

He pushes the curtains on the side and back of the house slightly to reach through and open up the windows to allow fresh air in, and coughs when he gets a nose and mouth full of dust. From a kid’s bedroom with two single beds, he can just about make out the path that led them here, but neither Jeyne nor Theon. 

_Please let them be waiting,_ he prays to the gods he finds it difficult to believe in anymore, and as much he’d like to ignore the fact, not just because he’s in danger of losing every one of his possessions not currently on his person.

**Theon**

After what feels like hours, they spot Jon moving towards them through the trees. Theon had never expected to feel so relieved at seeing Snow’s face. And what’s even stranger, is the small smile he wears on his long face.

“Good news?” Jeyne asks as she stands and pointlessly dusts herself off, the excitement evident in her voice.

“Yeah,” he nods and his smile broadens, “that would be an understatement.”

It’s when Jeyne’s joy has her holding Theon’s arm and him smiling that he meets Jon’s eyes. They aren’t the steel he’s come to expect and they don’t quickly tear away from him as is the norm. The grin drops and Theon’s stomach with it, but it gets replaced with something softer, curious, meant for him. Maybe if he was able to return it, if his mouth was uncovered, it would have lasted and not been wiped away with a nervous wetting of his lips.

“Right, let’s head.” Jon picks up the backpack and swings it onto his back. “They’ve taken some of the clothes, but hopefully there’s some that can be used, running water and a fireplace I’m hoping we might be able to rig something up in to heat it, and, by the looks of things, some food knocking around… I bet they regret leaving it behind now.”

-

“Is everything ok in there?” Jeyne calls through the bathroom door several hours and a hearty helping of tinned lentil soup they’ve found in the cupboards later. 

It appears to be one of Snow’s aims to get as much of the heavy preserved food in them as possible before they move on.

“Yes, I’m fine,” replies Theon.

It’s a lie. This should feel great, really washing the dirt and grime away, everything the ice-cold water of the streams couldn't. The warm water against his skin is the best feeling he’s had in a while. He had thought the act might help shift his mood. Make him feel more like a person. But just like dressing his feet, it’s forcing him to acknowledge the state of things. The state of him.

They’ve made the decision to haul hot water upstairs in a bucket, not to fill the bath because they’re all too dirty to want to stew in it, but because it will be easier to rinse away if they sit in the bath. For this, Theon is relieved. The warmth of the sitting room may have been tempting, but the bathroom has the benefit of increased privacy, even if he can’t bear to push the lock shut despite it being on his own side.

He’s not quite as gaunt as when Jon found them, though that's hardly difficult, but he can still see every rib. He’d called Arya ‘boney’ as a child and now he wishes he hadn’t had quite the truth given to him in such a drastic way.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Theon averts his eyes and looks down only to rest on the pucked pink scarring that covers him, and the hand struggling to hold the soap. He hardly recognises himself. Haggard, he resembles the solemn statue of Theon Stark more than the Theon Greyjoy he once knew. 

_I suppose it's fitting_ , he muses, _if this is what has come from a wish I once had to be one of them._

It’s times like this he wonders if he deserved it. All those hours spent in front of mirrors and now he can’t bear to look in them even for a second. Some certainly think so. Does Snow?

Thinking of Snow, he should get a move on with this and let him in. It humours him to think he is past doing something just to wind him up. Lucky, he has his suspicions that he’d be less likely to succeed these days.

“Theon?”

Theon jumps at the sound of Snow’s low voice at the door. Seven hells. Unexpected, it’s not quite the same as the safe nonthreatening tones of Jeyne’s own.

On reflex, he covers himself as best he can, hunching forwards to make himself small. “Sorry, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m not in a rush. What’s another hour or so I guess, right?” A forced laugh.

“Yeah…”

“I just wondered if you wanted a razor?”

“What?” Theon’s brows furrow momentarily before he registers the question and strokes his chin. “Oh…” The idea of a blade against his skin is not one he relishes. “I’m not sure.”

There’s a pause. The weight of everything unsaid heavy. 

He’s not said anything to Jon; not let him see any skin bar that on the upper portion of his face, but he knows in his heart that he will have been putting things together. It doesn’t take a genius to notice how he struggles with his hands, with eating, and when the tales of the Bolton’s are combined with it… And Snow has always been sharp.

“I’ll leave it outside the door just in case.”

With relief, he forces the word, “thanks.”

Snow’s voice is equally quiet when he replies. “You’re welcome.”

Theon finishes off by washing his hair, climbs out of the bath, and pulls a towel down from the shelf. Even the feel of a towel is now alien to him, the texture strange against his sensitive skin. 

The clothes waiting for him are soft and mercifully free of buttons. Even socks are a hassle these days. After a little struggle, he manages the drawstring on the bottoms to help them stay up on his hips. Before pulling the knitted jumper over his head, he opens the door to find the razor, blades glinting in the candlelight. It’s no use though, even if he could keep himself together, he can barely grip the handle.

When Theon shows his, unmasked, face downstairs, both Jeyne and Snow look up from their game of cards being played down on the floor in front of the fire. Jeyne shows him a little smile and Jon gives him a quick look up and down before turning back to his hand. He breathes a sigh of relief, having decided he couldn’t carry on concealing every part of himself, especially not indoors, he’d hoped for as little acknowledgment as possible and he’d gotten it.

“I’m going to cut Jon’s hair,” Jeyne announces. “Would you like yours doing too?” Theon instinctively touches his hair as he had his beard. He’s always worn it long, but now it looks scraggy, like the beard, and just as unpurposeful. “No pressure, of course.”

“Yeah, ok,” he breathes, nodding hesitantly and praying that he can hack a pair of scissors near him. In the corner of his eye, Snow glances back over, expression unreadable.

She jumps up. “Great! I’ll fetch the scissors and a spare sheet.”

“I’ll grab you a chair,” Jon tells them, getting up off the floor and following her out of the room. He slips past Theon without looking at him in a way that seems a little too purposeful.

They’ve been busy while he’s been gone. The curtains are now layered with cardboard from torn up boxes behind them to prevent the light seeping through, just in case, and the two smaller mattresses are now on the floor, complete with clean bedding.

Jeyne is quiet as she works, the snip of the scissors is the only thing that prevents complete silence, bar the occasional sigh. Sometimes, when they are all together, it can be all too easy to forget what she’s been through. Aside from those out of sight on her back, Jeyne’s scars are inside, visible only in the sorrow of her eyes and when the peppy veneer slips. The bruises that once coloured her arms purple have faded now.

“We could stay here,” she says halfway through in a hushed voice.

Theon can’t deny that the thought has crossed his mind. “He’d find us eventually.”

Sounding like she’s trying to convince herself as much as him, she argues, “but no one’s been here in years.”

“No one was looking for us before.”

Theon watches her lip wobble in the mirror’s reflection above the mantelpiece.

“Do you really think he’s still looking? Maybe he’ll leave it,” she says hopefully, her voice ready to crack. “He has Winterfell. There’s no need for me now… Like Lady Hornwood. Maybe he will fake my death… Arya’s death that is. Without people expecting her to be alive no one would mistake me for her.”

It’s a nice thought. A nice fantasy he could get caught up in if he let himself. To the average person she would be the middle class girl she was born as, and he… well, he is no longer Theon Greyjoy.

“He needs an heir, Jeyne. While the Starks, Snow even, still pose a threat, he needs you,” Theon tells her as tentatively as possible. This is definitely not his strong suit, but then he doubts Jon would do any better. A tear rolls down her cheek. She wipes it away with her sleeve and steels herself to begin cutting again. “Even if that weren’t the case. I can’t be enough for you. The food here will dry up. Winter will come and we will starve… I’m sorry.”

Jeyne puts on a brave face. “It’s not your fault.”

It is his fault though, isn’t it? Or at least he thinks it is. If he hadn’t seized Winterfell and handed it to Ramsay on a silver platter they wouldn’t be in this position. Maybe Jeyne would have never been forced into a cruel marriage. If he hadn’t betrayed Robb where would they be today? Robb whose love was more than he had found in his so-called home. Robb who he hadn’t needed to be anything but himself for.

He had thought his tears dried up, but he feels them now threatening to spring. Reluctant to fall apart in front of her, he pinches his forearm, hoping to keep them at bay. He doesn’t deserve to feel sorry for himself. Doesn’t deserve the sympathy and care she will show. Mercifully, Snow interrupts them and provides a distraction from his self-destructive thoughts. 

In their time growing up together in Winterfell, Theon had never considered Snow’s looks to be anything other than average, but in the here and now there’s no denying that he has a certain quality about him. He holds himself with more confidence these days. His scars only serve to intrigue.

Clean shaven, and no longer disguised by his bulky clothing, he looks more familiar in some respects but alien in others. It was easy to picture him as the awkward teen he’d once been until now. Though Theon might have described him as lean back then, a Stark in genetics through and through, much unlike Robb, it wouldn’t have been with the thought of the muscular frame he sees now.

Theon is dragged away from the somewhat unwelcome thoughts by Jeyne gently tilting his head and trimming the patchy hair at his chin with care. It’s sweet, if not mind-boggling, that she seems to think any of this will make much of a difference. He’ll look old and as broken as he is whatever she does.

When sets him straight, she forks her fingers through his hair, testing it. Then, to his horror, she addresses Snow who is perched on the arm of a sofa, browsing the bookshelf. 

“I think it looks kinda cool, don’t you?”

It’s good to see them loosening up around each other, but he hadn’t seen this coming. Drowned God.

First, Jon takes a book down, then turns to look back over his shoulder as though he hadn’t seen it when he came in just minutes before. 

**Jon**

“Mmm, it does,” he’d said, and he’d meant it. In an odd sort of way it sort of suits him.

The two of them had been chatting again before he’d walked in. It had taken everything in him not to eavesdrop, knowing full well they’d stop the minute he appeared. He’s trying not to take it to heart. It’s natural for them to be closer to one another. It’s natural for them to be wary of him, for Greyjoy not to trust him. But something about it all rubs on a sore spot.

Jon struggles to sleep that night. He tells himself its occasional small movements out in the garden. Perhaps they should have decided to have one of them keep watch still. He’ll nap during the day, take advantage of the relative quiet and the bookshelf now.

Jeyne and Theon sleep down on the floor. In this light, he could almost convince himself that she is Arya. Would he think differently of him if she were? It’s a question he can’t shake from his mind. It has to be drowned into the depths by way of forcing himself to remember everything he’s done to his family. Even if she were Arya, this one solitary act doesn’t excuse the rest.

It’s something that he reminds himself of after Theon jolts awake a little later, a small cry masking the crackle from the dying fire.

He ignores him at first, concentrating on the words on the page he’s reading with determination. It results in them each laid in silence, Theon’s eyes fixating on the flames in the grate.

He doesn’t know where it comes from when it happens, the question springs from. He’d say he didn’t have time to think, but he has, he’s had years. It’s festered in him for a long time now.

“Did you not feel guilty?” Jon asks, eyes flicking over to gauge the reaction. He watches Greyjoy swallow, notes the harrowed look in his eyes. It feels like time stands still until he speaks.

“Did you?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Jon**

“Did you?” Theon had asked, with a hint of his old self. Perhaps there’s more of him left in there than he’d thought.

Did he feel guilty? He can’t think what to say to that. Not immediately. Maybe it’s because there’s more than one possible answer. Pursing his lips, he sets aside the hardback book he’s been reading on northern folklore. Or trying to read as the case may be. But before he speaks, Theon interprets.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he mutters and rubs his eyes with the thumb and forefinger that remain on his left hand. “Ignore me.”

“No, you did,” Jon snaps, failing to put aside his anger, all he can do is to keep his voice lowered so as to not wake Jeyne. He doesn’t realise how much he considers it a lie, not truly, until he says it; “it’s not the same.” Greyjoy only watches him, waiting for him to elaborate. Whatever he says, it doesn’t matter. He knows nothing about it. Any of it. “How could you do it? After everything… “

Theon eyes press closed. “I… There’s nothing I can say that won’t make you hate me any less…” his voice shakes, “nor anything you can say that could make me feel any worse.”

“Did it mean nothing to you?” He spits. “The Starks were a family to you.”

A manic bark of a laugh escapes Theon and Jeyne stirs across the room on the other mattress. “If you live in fear that your family might turn on you, then maybe,” he says, almost choking on his words, then he continues under his breath, “maybe that’s family for you.”

Jon can feel the tears threatening to spill, tears he’s kept in so long, and so he takes in deep breaths through his nose. With his jaw clenched, he gets to his feet, not able to keep still any longer.

“He loved you,” Jon manages to say and jabs an accusatory finger, his voice threatening to crack. “How could you do it?” _How could I do it?_ “How does a person do that?” He’s shaking. Panicking. Then his hands move to his hair, clasping at the back of his head. “How? I… How? Tell me how? And now I’m here… with you… Helping _you._ ”

He hasn’t seen it happening, not through his tear clouded eyes, but Greyjoy has gotten out of bed when he wipes his eyes hurriedly. “Jon-” he begins, cautiously approaching him like he’s a horse that might spook. He’s showing his hands now, not hiding them away for this first time since they reunited. When Jon looks back on it later he’ll realise just how worried he’d been.

“Don’t call me that!” On reflex, he steps backwards, holds up his arms defensively, only Theon reacts by flinching. It’s something of a wake up call that he thinks he might hurt him. For a moment or two, they only look at each. He knows then that he needs to say it. 

It feels like a lifetime passes with him trying to get it out. Mouth dry, the words refuse to come. His heart races, his pulse thumps in his ears. Everytime he tries to speak more tears fall until at last he croaks, “I… I loved her... I _loved_ her.”

Once he dares to, he looks for Theon’s reaction. The reaction to him being a hypocrite. But rather the shock or anger, he sees Theon struggling to keep his own tears at bay. It’s understanding he finds in Theon’s expression. 

He gives a little nod, a small sympathetic smile, and gestures for Jon to leave into the hall outside. “Try to breathe,” he encourages him while keeping at a safe distance.

They don’t make it far before he sinks down onto his knees against the wall. “If… if I could do that… I’m no better am I?” He can hear Greyjoy, who has hesitantly gotten down beside him, swallow audibly. “I feel like… like it was me.”

There’s silence and then - “like,” Theon clears his throat, “like what was you?”

“L-like I killed him… Like I killed them both.”

“J-”, Theon pauses, recalling him lashing out. Jon can sense him up close, reaching out and almost touching him before he thinks better of it and pulling back away. “Sorry… Look, I… Well, I don’t know what happened with her, but,” a heavy sigh, “drowned god, I can’t believe I’m about to say this… I’m struggling to even accept this myself, but… I think… I…” Jon looks up to him, but Theon averts his eyes like he is prone to do these days. “I know you might not like me saying this - you can be angry if you want to be - but…”

Jon gives a heavy shuddering sigh. “Say it… Just say it.”

“Bolton… The Freys… They killed Robb. Not you, n-not me. They did.”

“But if I’d not gone to the Wall maybe he’d still be here…” Jon sounds like he’s pleading. Like the gods might listen and roll back time. “Maybe she would be too.”

“And maybe if I’d stayed with him he would be… but maybe Roose Bolton is a cunt no matter what hypothetical alternate reality we think up.”

Jon can’t believe it himself, but he chuckles. Theon being crude had irritated him once. Not now. Not after the wall. Not after her. Glancing over to Theon, he sees him smile, it's weak, closed-lipped, it’s nothing like the broad grins he knows of the Ironborn, yet it's there. His stomach turns with a new feeling of unease he can’t quite place.

“If you mention any of this to me tomorrow I’m gonna deny all knowledge because I’m not done torturing myself,” he tells Jon flippantly.

Jon laughs again, through the guilt, using the heels of his hands to push away the remaining tears he’s shed, and sniffs quietly.

“And… well… if I’m being honest, I’m not convinced I could have made a difference, but…” he sighs, looking down to the feet he’s shuffling on the floor in front of him.. “But I wish I’d have died trying… died with him if it came to that. I should have died with him... Snow?” Theon asks as though looking for permission to call him _something._ As though he hasn’t just dropped a death wish into the conversation. 

“I don’t know much,” he continues, “but I happen to know there aren’t women on the Wall freezing their tits off for the Night’s Watch. So, unless you married her or something, I assuming you didn’t break a fucking oath when you did whatever you did or didn’t do. Anyway, you need some sleep. No offence, but you look knackered. Take the bed on the floor. I can stay up if you need me to.”

**Theon**

Theon wakes up sweating, curled up in the armchair at the head of Jeyne’s bed which is now empty. He has a blanket thrown over him he can’t remember finding himself, and the fire still rages in the hearth despite the light of day filtering around the window coverings. 

His head aches, pulse throbbing in his temples, and in the moment he could almost mistake it for a hangover if he didn’t know any better. There’s a familiar sense of regret with it too. He’d said too much. It had gone too far. He just has to hope Snow isn’t holding on to too much resentment. At least it hadn’t resulted in Jon’s hands at his throat.

On the tiles in front of the flames are three trays covered in a mysterious purple substance he assumes is the reason why he appears to be baking in this stuffy room.

Following the sound of humming and the gentle rustle of the trees outside through the open door, he finds Jeyne in the garden sat tending to a pot on a campfire outside, peeling and coring apples over a bowl in her lap. 

“Morning,” he greets her, voice gruff, then looking at the sun's position through the clouds he reconsiders, “afternoon?”

She smiles softly and offers out a bowl with even more suspicious contents than the trays. “Jon said you didn’t get much sleep so we left you to sleep in.”

Whatever it is, it gloops off the spoon when he picks it up. “What is this?”

“Semolina pudding.” His face must betray his feelings about it because Jeyne chuckles. “I forget who both of you are sometimes…” she says with affection. What they are is what she means. Or were as the case may be. “It’s a bit like porridge. Well, it is porridge, but not the sort you’re used to.” She shrugs. “Seemed like the best breakfast option out of the tins.”

“I just need to go to the bathroom first,” Theon says, setting it back down by her. He looks briefly around and tries to sound casual, pulling his sleeves down over his hands. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs somewhere I think.”

“Are you ok here?”

Jeyne stirs the pan which has begun to bubble with a wooden spoon. “Yep, fine.”

Noting Ghost dozing across from her, and Jeyne’s acceptance of this, he feels better about leaving her than he would’ve done. “I'll be back down soon,” he assures her.

“No rush.”

The door to the master bedroom is ajar when he gets there. Jon, pulling out boxes from under the bed, either doesn’t hear him enter or chooses not to acknowledge him there. Theon doesn’t blame him for that. He might just be mad for risking the relative peace. It’s times like this he’s close to admitting he has something of a death wish.

Nervously, he clears his throat and folds his arms, hiding his hands from view. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Jon’s tone tells him that he had been aware of him in the room. Still, he continues to rummage through boxes, sending dust up into the air. There’s a candle burning on the nightstand to give him a little more light and, alongside it, a rusty hammer and chisel.

This confuses Theon, until he sees the metal lockbox Jon has cracked open. He picks up one of the glass bottles half full of black-market pills from inside. “Fuck,” he breathes, sitting on the bed and squinting at the faded cryptic label in a language he’s uncertain of. “Where did they go?” _Why did they go?_

Jon shrugs. Theon thinks he means not to speak, then he sighs and slumps a little, looking over to him and the green bottle. “I don’t know… I don’t like it. I thought they’d at least taken personal items, but now - “ his eyes flick to the open wardrobe still at least half full with clothes “ - I’m not so sure.”

“Do you know what they are?” He asks, shaking it from side to side enough for the tablets to rattle lightly.

“Those, I think, are painkillers. They look like, uh, some I’ve had before…and one of the others looks familiar, but I’m less certain.” Jon looks intently at the notebook in his hand. It must have been something to warrant the use of such a resource. Theon can’t imagine the Night’s Watch has meds on tap. “We might be able to find someone who can ID them in Deepwood.”

Pushing aside his curiosity, Theon changes the subject. “About last night-”

“I thought we weren’t talking about it,” Jon comments.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but-”

“Aren’t you listening? Stop,” insists Jon. He looks almost embarrassed. Resigned maybe. “Don’t look at me like that… There are some clothes in the other bedroom that might fit you well. The ones in here are a bit big. And there’s some boots under the stairs downstairs, but we might need to pad them out.” Theon feels his eyebrow’s bunch. “Make, um, inserts, or something. I imagine Jeyne might be able to help.”

_Oh._

It’s Snow’s turn to clear his throat awkwardly. “I just assume…” His gaze falls briefly on Theon’s hands and Theon nods, shifting them in his lap. Jon rarely looks directly at him these days and when he does it’s like he might almost be looking through him. “It might help to stop them rubbing.”

Theon knows rationally that Jon is concerned by the hindrance on their journey, but it's still more thoughtfulness than he deserves. Taking the reference to the clothes as his cue to leave and the suggestion as instruction to see Jeyne, he stands.

“We’ll stay another night,” says Jon. “There’s too much to look through… and too much promise. The benefit is worth the risk. Jeyne is preserving the fruit from the trees. We need to decide what else to take with us. I left you a camping bag I found downstairs on the chest of drawers. We’ll need to pack blankets as well… And, Theon,” he says as Theon reaches the door, “try not to make it too heavy.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, through the almost deafening sound of heavy rain that’s been a long time coming battering the windows, Theon hears a noise he hasn’t heard in a long time. Amongst the smaller thuds he can hear thwacks against something other than the glass or roof, and the sing of a blade through the air.

Theon knows who it is, of course, but it doesn’t prepare him for the sight.

He finds Jeyne sitting on the stone doorstep, sheltered by the small canopy above. She doesn’t have quite the same familiar expression she once wore watching him train with Robb at Winterfell, but she looks wistful for it. He wonders what Snow thinks to his audience.

Does it make it better or worse that he’s here now, witnessing the way he swings the sword? It slices through the leather covered bulk he’s got wrapped around a pole like it's a hot knife through butter. It’s a good job Jon has the skill and control to stop the momentum in time to avoid hitting the support. 

Longclaw, Jon calls it. Smaller than Ice, but just as deadly, thinks Theon. Especially when in a Stark’s hand.

Snow’s drenched to the bone. It’s impossible to know where sweat stops and the rain starts. It plasters his shirt to his body and rolls down his face, dripping from his straight nose and chin. From here, he looks furious with his invisible enemy. Theon wouldn’t blame him if it was him he pictures. Perhaps that's the reason for his anger; like with the living version, he’s forced to hold back when he’d prefer to take the head clean from his body.

“He’s…” Jeyne starts, to which Theon could almost laugh. Yes, he is. Whatever it is she might say. He is. “Different,” she says eventually, but he knows exactly what she means. He looks like someone to pay attention to. And it's not his physique, nor his skill, though they are nothing to sneer about, it's his whole demeanor.

Theon leans against the door frame behind her. It makes him yearn to be that same youth who might watch, waiting to flash a cocky smirk, if not go out there and join him.

He had won the last time they’d sparred. Usually did. Not through any special talent or affinity for the blade - that was never his forte - but because he had the years on him and the knowhow of rattling Jon Snow. That final defeat will live etched in his memory and he’d always intended it to.

The youth’s determination to leave for the Wall with a win had worked in direct contradiction. He’d gone for a strong start, let his temper get the better of him, and it had resulted in the tip of Theon’s practice blade at his throat, and still, chest heaving, he’d refused to officially yield. Just briefly, he lets himself imagine this new sword against Snow as he is now, the bob of the lump of his throat when he swallows, the hint of stubble, but keeps that wonderful storm in those grey eyes.

He’ll never have that effect on Snow again. No matter how much he’d like to, and it certainly would never be as a result of a swordplay triumph. That’s Jon’s world. Always has been.

“Mmm,” he nods, “he grew up.” He just wishes he’d grown up and realised you don’t bring swords to fights where Bolton is concerned. Jon Snow may not like it, but surely Commander Snow knows it.

When Jon tires, he does let the momentum of the sword play through and sweep through this setup of his and that's their cue to get back and let him pass. Stalking towards them, he sheaths the blade, and wipes the water from his sullen face.

 _Drown me for a fool,_ thinks Theon when their eyes meet just briefly. He shouldn’t have stood watching this little display, to save what's left of his sanity, and that's before Jon reaches back and pulls the soggy shirt over his head in the kitchen, leaving them both with a more than adequate view of his torso and the muscles - and scars, Theon notes, a few of which look too recent for him to be brazenly whirling around a sword - that cover it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the amount of time between these chapters! A little more action this time round - which is a struggle of mine so I hope its ok.

**Theon**

That night, laid on the sofa, Theon stares up at the cracks on the ceiling above. Having woken too late in the day, he’s paying for it now, and would regret it in the morning when Snow started encouraging them to get going. Or insisting they do as the case may be. Left to his own thoughts with nothing to distract him but Jeyne’s quiet murmurs, Jon’s rhythmic breaths, and the sound of the wind battering rain against the windows, he even regrets it now.

Staying up all night wasn’t something he regretted once, it was something he looked forward to. Even if it meant things were tough the day after. It was worth it. Robb’s embrace was worth it. If he presses his eyes closed and isolates the noises Snow makes it could almost be him just a metre or so away. He’d have slipped down and under the blankets already if it were. No, he’d have bid Robb follow him up the stairs.

This may be the first time in a long time he’s dwelled on that in quite the same way. Considered the idea being with someone and desired it. The feel of a hot body against him and lips pressed to his skin. His hands hold the phantom touch of curls between fingers and grips firm biceps, but before his mind works him up too much a small cough and movement breaks the silence and drags him from his imagination. 

“You awake?” 

Theon doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or thankful for the disturbance. He rolls onto his side to face Jon, apprehensive of what he has to say and the risk of a repeat of the night previous, and finds him sat up on the makeshift bed on the floor, patchwork quilt pooled around his waist.

He gives a short nod, more of an inclination of his head really. “How did you know?

“You were quiet,” Jon says, an odd look about him. His voice is gentler than Theon had expected. It feels somewhat reassuring and goes as far as to convince Theon’s heart to stop racing at quite such the same pace. He pauses then and makes Theon wonder if there was something he did want to speak about or not. That thought amuses him; that Jon might initiate a conversation with no purpose in mind. “Did you speak to Jeyne?”

It takes a moment to realise what he’s referring to before Theon remembers the boots. Sensing this might not be as brief a conversation as he was expecting, Theon pulls himself up to sit by his elbows. “Yeah, it's sorted.”

“Good, hopefully we’ll be able to make good time going on from here.” Jon scratches at his newly shaved chin and looks into the embers. “How is she?”

It’s something he wonders himself in truth. “I… It’s hard to say. All things considered… she’s holding up.” Theon watches as Jon’s eyes flick over to where Jeyne sleeps and considers the way his lips purse. He wants to ask what she’s been through, and yet he doesn’t. Needing to know but not able to face the truth of it.

“She seems so… I don’t even know how to describe it.” Jon shakes his head a little, splaying his fingers out as he searches for how to put it and fails. “One minute she’s…,” He meets Theon’s eyes to ensure he understands his meaning, “and then she smiles.”

He smiled once upon a time too. Despite everything, he had smiled. He’d worn it like armour.

Theon lowers his eyes, concentrating on the quilt’s pattern. “I know.”

“She doesn’t speak to me… not really.”

Theon wants to say of course she doesn’t. That it would probably take a lot for her to trust again and open up. That she is powerless under him. That he’s going to need to change his approach if he wants her to. Instead, he says, “give her time.” But Jon himself knows it isn’t that simple in his heart, or at least Theon thinks so from the way he sighs and draws his hand down his face before disguising the emotion with a rub of his eyes.

“I don’t know how to…” Jon’s shoulder’s heave. Like this, he reminds Theon of how dejected he could be back home too. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

“How long will it take us from here?” Theon asks, choosing to change the topic.

“About two weeks, I hope.”

“Thank you… for doing this.”

“You shouldn’t be thanking me,” Jon says, examining his sword hand. It occurs to Theon that it may have been a while since he last had a chance to train. His fingertips touch the points of pressure on his palm gingerly over the scar tissue Theon is yet to brave asking about. “It’s not for you.”

“Still. You said it yourself, you should have killed me.” He’d thought that was the end of him that morning on the hillside and part of him had wished for the mercy. It seems something has changed within him since. “Why didn’t you?”

Keeping his voice level despite the weight of the words, Jon responds, “what use to me are you dead?” He gives Theon a brief glance before he goes back to staring at his own hands.

The boy Theon once knew was more reactive than this. Less concerned with rational thought than his emotions.

Would he now be receptive to a plea to continue north with him now? Theon wouldn’t have thought so. He’s been more hindrance than help to this point. Sometimes he wonders if he should have left Jon and Jeyne to it. They’d have an easier time. But then he would be of no use, and dead within no time. If he can make even a small difference in seeing that the brother Robb had named his heir reclaim the North, whether in his name or another’s, so be it; he will comply with Jon’s wish to see him a hostage once more. There is no other life on offer to him.

Jon slides back down into the blankets and pulls them up over his shoulder. He’s turned away when he speaks again. “She needs you,” he puts simply.

* * *

**Jon**

Morning finds the world as wet as it had been the day before. It won’t be the good start he had been hoping for. Yesterday it had been something of a blessing, deafening any of the sounds he might have made, but today it has Jon praying that the paths continue past the house and towards the west. Though the other two now have better footwear he worries for their footing on the sodden ground. Jeyne especially. Despite Greyjoy’s current state he does at least have a little experience in this area.

Though he imagines the Ironborn will have done as little of it on foot as possible, it hasn’t passed Jon by that this is similar terrain Theon had once taken towards Winterfell rather than with it behind him as it is now. Sometimes he could almost feel pity for how far he has fallen… They have each overreached and suffered the consequences. 

Jeyne though… Jeyne is a different story. A pawn in a game she didn’t choose to play.

He sighs, fiddling once more with how his trousers sit as he waits for her and Theon to get ready to leave, fingers feeling for the cool metal of the weapon tucked into the waistband, hidden away beneath clothing. It had taken some time for Theon to fall asleep and finally grant him the freedom of sneaking away. 

What he hadn’t confessed or showed either was the brass key he had discovered rattling around in the lock box tucked away in the dusty bottom drawer of the nightstand. The moment he’d laid eyes on it he’d known what it was. In fact, a part of him had been looking out for it, but what he hadn’t accepted yet was that he would go as far as to use it. He hadn’t known then either if there would be anything worth taking; anything inconspicuous enough to hide.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t considered taking a gun away with him from the wall but there were a few reasons why he’d opted out, the first being an aversion to them, the second being that the stock the Watch held were primarily rifles and not ideal when needing the be discreet, and finally, resources were scarce. He doesn’t doubt he’d have the backing of many of his former brothers, the friends he’d made, but he’d prefer not to bring about more strife. It’s enough that he lives. The Watch owes him nothing.

Perhaps it had been foolish to believe he could do this without one. Afterall, he had originally believed he was to rescue Arya and take her to safety. Even with these two delivering themselves to him there’s a long way to go before they’re out of the woods as it were.

In the corner of his eye, Jeyne closes her hand around Theon’s fingers struggling with his boot laces until, wordlessly, he removes them, allowing her to fix how they sit and tie them in a secure knot.

“Thank you,” Theon says after she’s done, eyes lowered. His brief tightlipped smile, Jon believes, is sincere in its intent but forced all the same.

Slowly, Jon’s disgust and dismay at what he had judged to be weaknesses in his travelling companions is being replaced with further anger towards those that have done this to them, and although he doubts he will ever know the full picture, he’s coming to suspect it's something of a miracle that they’re keeping it together.

 _They would do the same to my family if given half the chance_ , he thinks. It could have been Arya, no matter how much he’d like to imagine she’d have fared better.

He has to admit that he is still very much concerned with how she will cope going forwards. Or how he will cope. She isn’t anything like what he’s used to. The last experience he had of such a girl was Sansa. He can’t help but admire how she has taken on tasks he wouldn’t necessarily have considered. It’s thanks to her, and the tin of lanolin she’d found that they won’t be soaking wet the minute they walk through that door. He can also be more assured that their provision they’d taken care to dry won’t fall prey to the elements now that she’s taken the time to wax each of them and the canvas Theon had found.

Laden with the heavy bags, they plough on, battling against the elements, until, around midday, with the sharp rain relentless, Jon chooses to vere into the denser woodland, opting for the shelter of the canopies over the path. The earthy smell of leaf mulch underfoot fills his senses, reminding him that they are running on borrowed time. _Winter is coming_. Through the debris, are signs of tracks, a lighter build up, prints no longer visible. Perhaps the chosen course of a badger. A larger beast at least, and not one light on its feet.

The relief is evident on Jeyne’s face when he calls an end to the day, even if this does now mean only a change in the task at hand. The rain has let up just enough for a fire to seem viable if they find hidden pockets of dry kindling on the land, but this is a day to make use of the canvas. After they have helped him clear a patch of earth, Jon sends her and Theon on the task of gathering while he is left to take advantage of his relative strength and climb in two of the sturdier looking trees to tie a rope up in there.

He’s perched in the nook of the branches of one such tree when the shout, dampened by the sound of rain falling against leaves, reaches his ears. It’s unmistakably Jeyne. He’d like to think this was provoked by Ghost, even if she has come to tolerate him he can still catch her off guard, but the wolf is busy investigating the new smells of their packs below.

Heart pounding, he drops down from his perch, takes hold of Longclaw from the base of the horse chestnut tree, and chases after the noise. His feet slip on the soft ground in his haste. _Mother have mercy, let her simply have been startled, as she is so easily._

It’s not to be.

He arrives to see Jeyne’s fingers pry at the hand covering her mouth in desperation. She struggles against the hold of a man behind her despite the harsh manner in which he tries to subdue her. That is, until they become aware of Jon’s presence, at which point the strategy of her captor changes.

The girl’s eyes close when the blade of a knife is pressed against her throat. 

“Come any closer and it's the end of her.”

The quiet resigned sob Jeyne lets out goes through him as it had the first day, but it is not irritation he feels now.

Dropping the sword to the floor, Jon snatches the gun out from behind him. He’s anything but sure of his abilities where this is concerned, but he feigns confidence all the same and hopes nothing in his stance gives him away.

“Let her go,” Jon growls. 

A harsh bark of a laugh leaves the would-be abductor, a man who smells foul even at this distance. He pulls her directly between the pair of them to use her as a shield. “Just try it.”

When she does look, Jeyne’s big eyes grow further. “Jon,” she pleads, no longer gagged, “do it. Please, do it. I won’t go back. I won’t!”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” he vows with no knowledge of how he will gain her release. Her sorrowful expression tells him she knows he’s devoid of a plan.

Off to the side, he spots the moment Theon arrives in the shadows, face deathly pale, and tries to keep his face neutral.

“You’ll give up on her and run if you have any sense in you, bastard.”

“Please!” Jeyne yells at him, it does nothing to steady his hand. “Kill us both if you must!”

If he was a better shot, he could try for over her head. The old Greyjoy would have made it, but he doesn’t like his own chances. 

His hand is forced by a shout of someone approaching them through the trees. He has to make a move and hasn’t a hope that he can do anything about it himself. In a last ditch bid to free her, he meets Theon’s eyes and pulls back his hand to throw the gun underarm through the air. This is a foolish plan if ever there was one, he even doubts Theon’s ability to catch from this distance.

In the next couple of seconds, everything changes. Taking advantage of the chaos and this crony’s drop in attention as he watches it fly by, Jeyne makes her own endeavors towards freedom and pulls down on his arm, yanking the hand near her neck away and taking him by surprise, before she sinks her teeth into him. The knife drops as she throws herself down, from his grasp and down into the mud. She loses little time before her fingers close around the leather wrapped hilt. 

He’s forced to admit to himself he misjudged Theon, who, when he drags his attention from Jeyne at the sound of the gun cocking, is aiming the weapon directly at his target. Clearly outnumbered, and now at the disadvantage, the stranger holds his hands up in front of his chest helplessly, trying to buy time, but it's not enough, he underestimates the anger and determination in Jeyne and suffers the plunge of the blade into his thigh.

“Jeyne, here!” Jon shouts frantically after witnessing the blow, and crouches quickly to take his sword up once more.

By the time he has wrenched the weapon from his flesh, Jeyne is on her feet and heeding Jon’s words, scrambling towards him as he runs to meet her. 

“Drop it, fool,” a deep voice scoffs nearby, “do you really think you have any hope in hell you can still use that thing? With those hands?” 

Theon’s head turns to look at the newcomer and the pistol directed at him, face unreadable and chest heaving from the adrenaline. Then, without a second thought, his body swings around and two shots ring in their ears.

Jon dares not look whether he’d been successful, he pulls Jeyne behind him by her arm and runs with purpose towards his target. He hadn’t expected to win without a fight, but the knife that hurtles towards him and slices into his left shoulder still takes him by surprise. Crying out with fury, he lifts Longclaw and swings across, putting every effort into the cut of the torso before him though the enemy has little in the way of protection.

Hot blood sprays his face and from Jeyne’s gasp, it reaches her too.

After the brute collapses onto the forest floor, he finally looks back to Greyjoy, finding him looking mystified at the gun in his hands and seemingly uninjured, and breathes a sigh of relief. Tilting his head back, he offers his face to the heavens and wipes what of the blood he can from his face with the rain.

It takes a moment for him to regather, to turn to Jeyne and have her throw herself into him. Fighting through the pain and feeling awkward, he hesitantly wraps her in his arms. “You’re safe,” he tells her. “It’s alright, you’re safe.”

Jeyne’s head at his chest, he meets Theon’s eyes. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Shaking his head, Theon swallows hard and begins to walk over at a slow, almost dreamlike, pace. “W-what possessed you?” With Jon declining to answer, he continues to press him, “Jon, why…” His gaze drops to his hands once more. “How could you be sure. I-... My fingers… I don’t even have...”

His trigger finger. Ramsay had taken the finger most would use to pull it from one hand, and the bottom two from the other.

“I couldn’t be sure, but it was the only hope and…” He sighs, Jeyne’s hair tickles his nose when his breath moves it, “I have watched you enough to know you are naturally left handed no matter how much you have learnt to conceal it. Bolton is a fool not to have considered it. I had to trust you only had half as much skill as you did before.”

A static crackle has each of them startle. Jeyne appears to remember herself, pulls away from him, and steps back towards Theon, wiping tears from her cheek only to leave streaks of dirt and blood.

“Alyn? Alyn, come in. Over,” speaks a distorted voice.

Jon takes a deep breath and treads cautiously over the body. Clipped to who-he-assumes-is-Alyn’s belt, is a radio. How tempting it would be to keep. To be able to eavesdrop on conversations around them. But there would always be the threat of those they want to avoid using it as a means to track them by. He knows he needs to destroy it, but first he’s going to take a risk.

Once he’s removed it from the fastening, Jon holds it a little distance from his lips, closes his eyes, and tries to broaden his northern accent, mimicking Alyn’s voice. “Alyn here. Over.” Please let the poor reception cover the difference.

“Found anything yet? Over.”

“His name?” Jon asks, inclining his head over to the other body.

“S-skinner,” Theon whispers like someone might hear him.

He nods and holds the button back down. “Nowt here. Skinner reckons he saw summat going southwest. Over.”

“Meet back WW 583 056. Over.”

Motioning for Theon and Jeyne to try to remember the coordinates by tapping his head, Jon clears his throat and prepares to speak again. “Will do. Over.” Once sure that’s the last of that interaction, he lies the receiver on a nearby rock protruding through the dirt and slams his foot down hard onto it. The plastic casing requires a few blows to crack and allow him to destroy the inner workings. “We need to get moving,” he says with regret. “To put some distance between us.”

“Your shoulder,” Theon protests, watching Jon, teeth gritted, pressing down against the cut, bleeding it of remnants of the alien blood. “You need-”

Jon heads to retrieve the gun from Skinner’s hand. “It will have to wait,” he says when he’s close once more, and declines the original gun held out to him. “No.” He reaches over and gently sets his hand over Theon’s to push it away. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

Every ounce of logic in his body responds, _It would be hard to regret something if you were dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you do get to this point please do consider leaving a simple comment even if it’s just something like ‘here’ or ‘still reading’ because it’s a little difficult to keep going when it doesn’t feel like there’s much interest. Thanks in advance if you do 💖**
> 
> So, I um'd and ah'd a lot over writing in an accent, especially where I don't think GRRM does - also I just won't be able to do with other accents if I want to do them down the line. Anyway, I went for just using different dialect to make it a little less 'Jon' I guess.


	7. Chapter 7

**Theon**

Jon pushes them on through the night, with not even the moon and stars filtering through the canopy to light their way, and sticks ahead of each of them. Theon wonders whether he is purposefully ignoring the moments when he or Jeyne trip on the undergrowth or uneven ground. He keeps them from any form of path and neglects to clear the way, though Theon is uncertain whether this is primarily to disguise their tracks, which must be heavy all things considered, or because he’s not currently capable. He suspects both. With Snow ahead of them he sees every time he stumbles and how he struggles with his bag slung over only his good shoulder. Theon can only hope his clumsy movements are on account of the pain and dim light rather than disorientation owed to the loss of blood.

It’s shortly after dawn when Snow finally permits them to stop. He all but collapses against the rocks by the small river they reach, letting the pack slip onto the dirt. He allows himself brief respite, setting the back of his head against the cool stone, before he starts moving again.

Theon watches him first free himself of his outer clothing and the boiled leather that hadn’t stretched far enough to give him any protection, all the while wondering at what point he should intervene without Snow asking for help. 

Jon grits his teeth when he has to contort himself to remove the top from his arm and pull it over his head. It pulls his skin where the blood has congealed once he tries to peel it back from the wound, but Theon can see from this distance that the cut is refusing to begin healing, blood trickles down the exposed portion of Snow’s torso. They’re going to need to do something about it. Jon being Jon however, seems intent of persevering through it by himself. Single handedly, he struggles with the buckles and drawstring to his backpack and begins to pull the contents from it. He should realise they’re past that now.

“What are we looking for?” Theon asks him, approaching with caution and kneeling at a small distance away.

Jon’s steel eyes raise to look at him, his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. Snow has always been proud, it figures that he’d have a problem asking for help even now. Even after everything that’s happened. 

He draws his hand over his face in defeat, smearing dirt over his forehead, and says quietly, “there’s a suture kit.”

Theon nods. His fingers struggle with feeling through the items inside the bag, lacking the dexterity he once had, while the sound of the rapids rush in his ears.

“Leather pouch,” Jon clarifies. “I should have put it somewhere more sensible. There’s a flask in the side pocket. I’ll need that too. And the boiled water.”

He intends to do it himself then. As much as Theon would like to be able to put an end to this notion, he’s unconvinced he would manage this task of patching him up. And not only on account of his hands. This part he can do though. After sourcing the small bag, Theon shuffles across to him wordlessly. To his credit, he hears no objection from Snow at pulling the shirt the rest of the way off to rid him of it. 

Theon’s eyes drop to the heavy scarring covering the torso just under him. He can feel Jon’s own watching him closely, see the way his stomach muscles tense under the scrutiny, and just for a moment, he considers how it would feel, how it would be received, if his hand traveled. Gulping, he wrenches his eyes away, refocuses on what needs to be done. He can’t be thinking such things, and not just because it isn’t the time nor place.

Jeyne sits in shock, picking at the mud beneath her nails while he cleans his hands as best he can, and Theon has to admit he feels more at a loss at how to help her than Jon in physical pain. 

They could do with hot water but it goes unsaid between them that Jon has decided they are too close to risk the smoke. A hiss escapes Jon when Theon touches the soaked cloth to his skin. He’s not new to the cleaning of wounds. Though he’s never been in the position of having to do it properly himself, he knows the basics. Move in the same direct with the cut and with as few strokes as needed. 

Theon braves a look at Jon’s face. He’s doing well at hiding the discomfort from his expression, but Theon can feel the race of his pulse under the palm holding them steady. “Do you have anything for the pain?”

“Not for this pain, no,” Jon says, looking determinedly off to the side.

Theon knows whatever he says will be in vain. “Jon…”

“I’ll be ok.” Jon’s voice is perhaps the softest he’s heard it directed at him. He might speak to Jeyne like this when he’s attempting to reassure, to be kind, but it's a foreign feeling to Theon. “It’s just in an awkward place, that’s all.”

The words escape Theon before he’s even properly considered them. “I don’t know,” he says, looking down at the scars, “I’d say some of these were a touch more awkward.” He hears Jon’s smile, the small huff of a laugh, before he looks up to see it.

“You might be right there,” Jon admits, meeting his eyes.

In another life, or an alternate universe rather, he’d push Jon’s hair back from his face where it clings, wet with rain, but he’s left to do the only thing he can do, return it with a closed lip smile of his own. If only his smiles carried the same power they once had.

Clearing his throat and dragging his eyes back to the task at hand once more, Theon places the cloth in Jon’s hands for him to begin cleaning them up before he moves to unscrew the lid to flask and tip a small amount of the alcohol it contains over his shoulder. “I’m sorry… I can’t do more.”

Jon shakes his head. He doesn’t need to ask why. “It’s fine.”

Theon watches the first push of the needle Jon makes through his own skin, how his hands shake, with a kind of morbid fascination. He is forced to look away lest he retch with the turn of his stomach. To his relief, Jeyne appears to withdraw from the state she had fallen in when Jon had finally permitted them to take a breather.

“I can…” she almost whispers before raising her voice enough to stop Jon in his tracks, “I can do it.”

Though reluctant, Jon backs down after some persuasion from them each until at last Jeyne is permitted near him following a good clean of her hands. The way he sucks in his lip to detract from his pained expression as she works brings unbidden memories of his brother doing just the same. Then, Theon had held Robb under the pretense of holding him still, prevented from showing too much affection in the company of the medic.

Theon does the only thing he can do to help. “Do you have a plan?” he asks, hoping to distract both Jon and himself.

“I --” Jon presses his eyes closed. “If you can each bear it, we should press on, stop a little earlier than usual maybe. I’d rather not stick around here and fear them catching up. It depends if they find the bodies. If they do they’ll be more determined to find and follow the tracks, and they will move quicker than we can… I should have been better prepared for this. It was wrong of me to let you both go wandering off.”

“You can’t always be there… And you were right that first day. I was wrong to think we could have done this by ourselves, but there's only so much you can do.”

“Thank you, Jeyne,” Jon says once she has finished, attempting to dress the, as he’d put it, awkward wound before she takes the bandage from him and takes over. “They’re probably the neatest stitches I’ve had… or can recall anyway.”

 _And he’s had enough for that to mean something_ , reflects Theon, repacking the bag while Jeyne helps Jon dress in the corner of his eye.

“I’m not certain Septa Mordane quite had this in mind during all those hours,” Jeyne smiles, “but I’m glad I could help. I do hope the next time I find myself with a needle and thread it’s with cloth in my hands.”

Theon is certain Jeyne expects the response as little as he does. 

“Well, there’s my shirt if you want to be certain.”

Jeyne titters. “If you weren't already suffering…” she teases and receives a grin in response. 

They’re soon back on their way, only after Jeyne has used some of the clothing to take the weight of Jon’s bag off his left shoulder and to help encourage more of it to sit on other areas of the body following an unsuccessful bid to allow them to give him a lighter load. 

**Jon**

He’d forgotten about Theon’s teeth, or refused to acknowledge them properly perhaps. In anycase, he’s reminded about their poor state at the sound of Jeyne’s hushed voice behind him apologising to him over difficulty in eating the fruit leather. It surprises him how much he cares, and not just because of the practicalities of it, when he could so easily reason it was the best way of preserving the garden’s bounty. Concentrating on their quiet conversation, he hears Theon assure her that he can tear off small pieces and soften them in his mouth, but he still finds himself filling with something akin to the anger he’d felt on the journey south.

It won’t do well to develop feelings of any sort for the man he means to hold hostage, and yet he’s getting dangerously close to developing affection. Each time he runs through the list of wrongs Greyjoy has committed against him and his kin in hopes of stifling the flame it proves harder to push back the growing number of ways in which he might excuse them, or even strike them altogether.

As the days wear on the distance between them when they sit to eat, even when they lie to sleep, ebbs away to the point that Jon is certain if he reached out during the night his fingers would graze Theon’s sleeping form in his bedroll. The temptation to move closer increases as they begin to gain some distance north towards the southern tip of the Northern Mountain ridge where the trees become sparser and provide less protection from the elements.

As fate would have it, it’s Theon that first bridges that gap.

Jon wakes one night following in a cold sweat with a hand squeezing his shoulder gently. He can’t even remember what the nightmare had been about now but it is enough for his imagination to run through all the things it could have been, and that, how his thoughts race, is perhaps worse.

“You were dreaming,” Greyjoy whispers so as to not disturb Jeyne. A few days ago, he had decided to instruct Ghost to stay with them overnight. Noticing the girl had become comfortable enough to sleep with him closeby, it had sempt sensible to have the wolf dog lay to her other side, and so they now risk leaving it to him to guard them. If their would-be pursuers haven’t found them yet they must surely be looking elsewhere. “I wasn’t sure whether I should wake you or not.”

Theon hasn’t touched him since that morning after the incident. Since he’d looked at him dangerously close to how he’d once hoped Greyjoy might one day look at him.

Propped up on an elbow, Theon watches him closely, waiting for some kind of response. “Are you awake?”

“What…? Yes, sorry.” He feels the loss when Theon’s hand slips away, having done its job. It feels a lifetime ago he could be certain of those regular moments of human touch. “Just about.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” The white hair visible at the edge of his hood shines in the moonlight. The clear sky may be beautiful but it makes for cold late autumn nights.

“No… no, I’m fine,” Jon claims with little conviction. “Thanks though.” Staying on his back, he closes his eyes and tries to force himself to drift back off, but the memories playing on his mind are too great. The most he can do is to throw Greyjoy off, have him believe he is in fact fine.

“How’s your shoulder?” asks Theon after a period of silence with only the crackle of the campfire in which Jon has failed to feign sleep.

“Little sore still, but getting better.” 

For a minute, Jon believes this to be the end of the conversation, until Theon speaks again. “Do you remember when killing in the Wolfswood was a sport we did for fun?” It shouldn’t be funny, but Theon’s tone makes it so and Jon feels his lips curl on their own accord.

“I wish the circumstances had been different, but It was nice to join forces with you this time.”

Jon turns onto his side, thankfully his right, to face Theon properly, but struggles to say anything bar a quiet, “you too.”

“Thank you for putting your faith in me, even if I think you’re a madman.”

He smiles again. “It worked out, didn’t it?”

Suddenly, the expression on Theon’s face turns serious. “I didn’t even believe…” 

“I used to watch you,” Jon bites his lip. Often, speaking to Theon makes him feel like he’s regressed back to simpler times, like the expectations have been lifted from his shoulders. “I thought, maybe, if I watched enough I might have an ounce of the skill you had. That doesn’t just go, even if you aren’t physically the same. The thought processes are still there.”

Theon’s eyes fall to look at the ground between them. “You were never shy about showing your distaste.”

“I know… I know. I just --” he sighs, regretting it to some degree. “I resented you for it. It was just another thing you had over me. Why are you smiling like that?”

“It’s nothing.”

Jon reaches over and pushes him playfully with the tips of his fingers. “Tell me.” Seeing Theon first overegg the force by pulling back and then slowly wet his lip is worth the stab of pain in his own shoulder.

“I just think we’ve spent too long envying each other,” says Theon. Jon opens his mouth, trying to find the words to ask how on earth he could have been jealous of him when Theon continues and pushes it aside. “I could show you. It will be tricky without being able to actually take a shot, but --”

“Thanks,” Jon mumbles awkwardly, “that would be good.” He cannot blush. Commanders of the Watch do not blush. Not even ex ones. To put an end to this, he rolls back and pulls his blankets back over his arms up to his chin.

“And Jon…”

“Mmm?” _Please let it be about the journey and nothing else._

“You don’t need to answer me now, but it would mean a lot if you would consider letting me continue with you.”

Nothing else is said. If he tries hard enough maybe he can fool even himself into thinking he’d already fallen back to sleep, or it was never said again after the time he’d outright said no. It’s a toss up as to whether he’d cave or snap if he’d have answered in the moment. He’d rather do neither.


End file.
